A/N: A small filler chapter. Poor Shepard is having issues controlling her emotions and PTSD, and we'll see her struggling to connect with her younger self as Ahyoka Shepard. Good thing she has Garrus to help her work it out, in his own way. It's about to get kinky, folks.
That being said, if you don't like human/turian sex, blood play or violence, skip this chapter. If you do, then enjoy ;)
Living in a wide landscape are the flowers –
Rosenberg I only repeat what you were saying –
the shell and the hawk every hour
are slaying men and jerboas, slaying
the mind: but the body can fill
the hungry flowers and the dogs who cry words
at nights, the most hostile things of all.
But that is not news. Each time the night discards
draperies on the eyes and leaves the mind awake
I look each side of the door of sleep
for the little coin it will take
to buy the secret I shall not keep.
I see men as trees suffering
or confound the detail and the horizon.
Lay the coin on my tongue and I will sing
of what the others never set eyes on.
Desert Flowers, Keith Douglas
XIII: The Door of Sleep
The Normandy was deathly quiet during the night cycle, slipping through the vacuum towards Omega. Shepard had showered in scalding hot water on their return from Illium, until her skin was splotchy and red from the heat and steam. Garrus had quietly stole down to the main battery on the pretense that he was very much behind on his calibrations. Shepard knew better, of course. He was giving her a chance to collect herself without the pressure of his presence, and she silently thanked him for his tact, but she was also worried her dismissal of any concern he exhibited had been too harsh. This was something she didn't know how to deal with herself, and she didn't need to fall apart in front of him. Her hands had been shaking since Karn Harga's name had slipped past Lito Baros' lips, filling her chest with a burning rage that left her blood smoldering.
Fate had a way of throwing little reminders in her face. It unearthed issues she had never come to deal with fully, or had compacted down into the back of her mind. Elysium had been her first encounter with batarians since the raid on Mindoir. After the dust had settled, the brass had pulled her aside, slapped her with the Star of Terra, and a diagnosis of PTSD. Her status as a war hero skyrocketed, and the Alliance continued to use her as a poster child of the resilience of humanity. Two years after the Skyllian Blitz, she had been dropped on Torfan, and proceeded to slaughter every single batarian that crossed her path. At the end of the battle, the Alliance had come out victorious. Their poster child was designated with a new nickname, and even more fame. If brass had realized their perfect weapon was spiraling out of control, they did little to quell it other than several mandatory sessions with a military psychologist. They eventually gave her a clean bill of health, several more awards, and a promotion. Who was she to argue?
During the Blitz, through her adrenaline haze, Shepard dully recognized no matter how much batarian blood she spilled, it would never truly quench her burning need for absolute revenge. Many times she had snuffed the life from them, but it only dulled the pain. The attempt at Garrus' life had been the schism; splitting her morality from pure abhorrence. It consumed her, wrapping itself around her form. Too many of her past issues colliding with her present, dropping into a very desolate place in her psyche. Part of her normal self still remained, bobbing quietly on the surface of her conscious, telling her she needed to rein it in, control the energy and use it. So, with shower-damp hair, she pulled on a t-shirt and leggings, and fished her bow out of the closet.
She had long since stopped wondering how Cerberus had found the weapon. It had been among her personal items on the original Normandy, stowed away in her locker. After waking in the lab, touring the new ship, and acclimating to her quarters, she had found it, unceremoniously shoved into the back of her closet, behind several uniforms. The original quiver was there as well, along with all dozen hand-fletched arrows she had painstakingly restored several times over. It was the only piece of Mindoir she had left, and part of her felt as if she should discard the entire thing and be done with it. Some form of closure. But it had been given to her by her aluli, a gift for turning thirteen. Every day she had practiced with it, shooting at makeshift targets stapled to trees. They made her practice with real weapons of course; pistols and assault rifles, as was required for all colonists over the age of twelve. The bow had steadily remained her favorite until she enlisted, and the range master pressed a sniper into her eager hands.
Now, sitting on her bed with the bow in her lap, she ran her fingers over the wood, tracing the intricate geometric shapes carved into the limbs. The art of hand-making a recurve was most likely lost, dying along with her culture and her people. Here in space, there was no practical reason for the weapon, but Shepard felt the need to mentally connect with the more solid mindset archery brought her. It had always been a form of meditation. Gathering the bow and quiver, she left her quarters and hit the elevator button for the cargo bay.
Garrus paced several times over in the main battery, pausing only to listen for footsteps outside the door. Algorithms were good for distracting, but there was something about the deadness of Shepard's eyes made that his stomach curl with anxiety. Guided by his restless state, he found his feet wandering to the elevator and up to the CIC. It was the middle of the night cycle, and the only person awake was Joker, ensconced comfortably in his pilot's chair. Several screens were open above the console, displaying live vid feeds from various places on the ship.
"I'm glad I'm not the only one all keyed up over this," Joker said somberly. Garrus had never heard the pilot not be sarcastic, and settled his lean frame against the co-pilot chair, observing the vid screens.
"I am a little confused as to why she is so worked up over a single batarian," the turian replied casually. His confession earned him a pointed stare from Joker.
"You are aware of Shepard's…past, correct?"
"That depends on what you're referring to."
Joker sighed and adjusted the brim of his cap, pulling it lower over his eyes.
"Her entire family, hell, her entire colony was killed or abducted by batarian slavers when she was sixteen," the pilot shook his head. "I thought that was common knowledge. The Alliance sure shoved it down everyone's throat before…"
"Before the reapers?" Garrus supplied quietly.
Joker snorted. "Before they set her lose on Torfan. After Elysium, and after the commendation for her participation in the Skyllian Blitz."
The turian stilled. "They let her partake in a raid on batarian space? After what happened to her family?"
"Do you not get the news, Garrus? Ever heard of the 'Butcher of Torfan'?"
Garrus nodded, eyes widening.
"Shepard is the Butcher of Torfan."
"Ah. I had never made that…connection."
Joker was closing vid screens, pulling up a single live feed and expanding it. The cargo hold was normally empty during the night cycle, but now, a figure flitted across the camera's view, shoving empty shipping crates against a wall.
"What is she doing?" Garrus asked, moving to hover over Joker's shoulder for a better view.
"Target practice," he supplied, zooming in the feed.
Several crates were now stacked, and Shepard leaned a sparring mat up against them, a paper target taped to it.
"She's going to shoot inside the ship?" the turian croaked.
"No, moron. Watch."
On the screen, Shepard was counting paces from the upended mat to the other side of the cargo hold. Something was slung across her chest and on her back, bumping against the back of her thighs as she walked. Garrus made a tight, discontented noise in the back of his throat.
"What is that?"
"A bow and arrow," EDI's holo supplied, appearing next to the vid screen. "I believe it is a common weapon of Shepard's ancestors, used for hunting and warfare before the invention of gunpowder-propelled projectiles."
"Guns. They're called guns," Joker said, a touch of annoyance coloring his voice.
"According the Commander's dossier, under the 'weapon proficiency' section, she is listed as a sharpshooter on sniper rifles and pistols, an expert on assault rifles and SMGs, and a master archer on all standard types of bows. The Alliance does not require its enlisted to test their archery skills, but the Commander was involved in several cultural and local tournaments. She was ranked number one for several years on Earth while in N7 training. She is also proficient with knives."
Garrus let a hiss escape through his teeth as he watched Shepard's form on the vid screen. The knives part he had seen first hand many times. This bow was an interesting deviation from the usual mass-effect propelled snipers she so loved. On screen, Shepard had removed the bow and was now gracefully sliding an arrow out of the quiver and nocking it.
"She's going to punch holes in the sparring mat," Joker quipped, leaning back in his chair to study Garrus. "I've seen the heads she has on those arrows. She made them. Carved them. Out of bone."
The weapon was now raised, bow arm straight, arrow resting against her extended finger. The wooden limbs bent as she drew the string back. Even on screen, Garrus recognized her breathing technique, which had become so familiar to him. A deep inhale, held for several heartbeats, and the bow loosed on exhale, arrow embedding across the hold into the 'heart' of the target.
"So yeah," Joker drawled, eyes on the screen. "Long story short, Shepard knows about sixty-seven ways to kill, and is very, very angry right now. Oh, did I mention we're currently on course to Omega, to track down a batarian slaver? I don't know what's going on between you two, nor do I want to…" Joker turned to stare at Garrus' still form. "But my advice? Stay out of her way."
"She stopped me from killing Sidonis," he supplied, crossing his arms against his chest.
"Uh, yeah. Probably because murdering someone in cold blood on the Citadel in the middle of the damn day doesn't look too good on your record. Especially piled on top of your current work for a known terrorist organization." Joker shook his head and sighed. "While I don't pity the idiots we're after, I'm also worried. Before…" he dropped his eyes and twisted his hands in his lap. "Before, on the first Normandy, she was in control of herself. But now?" his voice drifted.
Several times Garrus had accompanied Shepard on missions, and each time her carefully calculated demeanor had dissolved into utter blood lust. There was no better term for it. Before her death, she had easily been the best infiltrator the N7 had ever churned out; completely silent, leaving no trace other than dead bodies. After her resurrection, she had become utterly ruthless to the point of blind rage. On the ship she was calm, of course, the picture perfect Commander. On the ground, she was a whirlwind of death. In any other person, the loss of control would result in recklessness. For Shepard, it only amplified her precision. But it wasn't her usual MO.
"Just, promise you'll make sure she doesn't hurt herself?" Joker asked quietly, staring down at his intertwined fingers. "I don't think I could handle her dying. Again."
Garrus gently clapped a hand on the pilot's shoulder.
"I wasn't there to save her the first time. But I'm here now." With a nod, he left the bridge for the elevator.
I need to make more arrows, she thought as the last one left her bow in the blink of an eye, punching through the now shredded paper target. She had been careful not to group them too close, in an effort to save the fletchings from being too damaged. Inhale, draw, aim, exhale, release, repeat. At thirteen, she could barely pull the bow back far enough to propel an arrow more than a meter. Now, with military training and cybernetic strength, she had to be careful to not draw back too hard.
She was down to her last arrow when the elevator door slid open. Garrus emerged, still fully armored in his Archangel gear.
"Don't turians ever sleep?" she asked, pulling another arrow from her quiver with a practiced motion. Her eyes never left the paper target.
"I heard you were having all the fun down here," he replied, sauntering over to her. "And you didn't even invite me."
Her lips twitched as she nocked her arrow, drawing with a smooth motion. Shoulder muscles bunched beneath her shirt. Inhale, draw.
"The invitation is always open, Garrus. I just figured you were tired, considering you were poisoned earlier." Aim.
"Somehow I keep forgetting about that," he replied, scratching the back of his neck, looking at her reproachfully.
"I highly doubt that." Exhale, release. The arrow hit the target with a smack, and she lowered the bow, turning to look at him. He looked concerned, head tilted to the side in confusion.
"Shepard…" he said, voice wavering slightly. She was radiating tension, feet braced against the cold metal floor of the cargo bay, spread shoulder-width in shoot stance. He was not the source of her stress, but the rational part of her brain had been left behind in the abandoned office on Illium. His calm gaze bored into her, and she turned, breaking eye contact. In turian body language, she had just insulted him, dismissing his presence.
She half expected him to turn and walk away, to let her wallow in her dark mood, but instead, he began shucking pieces of armor, twisting off his greaves and throwing them to the side, unlatching shoulder guards, all while keeping his eyes on her.
"I'm going to pretend you didn't just give me the turian equivalent of 'fuck off'," he quipped, sliding catches on his shoulder guard open, peeling the ceramic away from his undersuit. "Put the bow down, Shepard. Preferably somewhere out of the way."
Her head snapped back to him, eyes narrowed. "What are you doing, Garrus." Tones of command laced the statement. It wasn't a question; it was an order to stop. He was down to just his undersuit now, discarded pieces of armor flung against the closest wall. He unzipped the shirt, pulling it off over his head, sending it to join discarded blue ceramic. His eyes flashed dangerously as he leaned down to pull off his boots and shin guards. Shepard cleared her throat, feeling her pulse spike with each piece of cast-off covering. In just black undersuit pants, he sauntered over to her, grabbing the bow out of her hand. She watched it happen, felt the weight of the quiver leave her back as he removed that as well, and stashed them against the wall where his armor lay.
"Garrus…" she said, quietly, voice dissipating in the cavernous hold.
He was standing a meter from her, eyes never leaving hers. Shepard took a brief moment to appreciate how tall he was even out of armor, imposing and strong.
"Garrus," she said, louder, eyes narrowing. In response, he crouched, and let out a predatory growl, baring teeth.
The normal human response to a turian's challenge would be to flee. Shepard's response was instinctual; she bent her knees and met his eye contact, baring her teeth. Her damp hair was pulled back into a hasty knot at the base of her neck, and she curled her hands into fists, breath hitching.
"I recall a previous conversation we had, Commander," he said, voice dripping with subvocals. "About blowing off steam…about reach and flexibility." He began circling her slowly. "It looks to me that you need to ease some tension, and I believe I owe you. Or rather, you wanted to see Archangel in action."
Her brain barely had a chance to register his implication before he was on her, launching himself across the distance between them with blinding speed. She reacted half a second too late, and hit the metal floor of the cargo bay hard, pinned by his weight. She felt the rage boil up in her, along with the aching twang of want and need. He had her upper arms pinioned beneath his hands, straddling her hips, a low, rumbling growl escaping through bared teeth. She couldn't move her upper body, but he had let his head get too close to her face. With an echoing crack, she head butted him. The impact made him reel back in pain, and with the weight lessened, she twisted her arms out of his grip and slid along the floor, gathering her legs up under her and planting bare feet on his chest. He shook his head, trying to clear his vision, a second before coiled thigh muscles sent him flying off her. He hit the floor with a loud thump.
Shepard was bleeding freely from a gash on her forehead, courtesy of thick turian brow plates. Stars popping in front of her eyes, she struggled to her feet, back into a ready crouch, as Garrus managed to do the same.
Her head ached, and she wiped blood out of her eyes with the back of her hand, panting. Part of her wanted to talk, to form words, but something about the gleam in his eyes, teeth bared, made the idea speaking impossible. Instead, she felt adrenaline coursing through her blood stream, bringing his form into sharp focus. Nimbly, she circled to the right, and launched herself at him, landing a blow on the uninjured side of his face. He tried to grab her, but she danced away out of his reach, laughing. A hair-raising snarl slipped past his lips, and a leg swung out from underneath him, catching her off balance. She saw his intent the moment before he moved, and jumped, avoiding the worst of the blow. Absorbing the impact, she landed on her toes and rolled onto her shoulder, grabbing at his spurs as she went down. He was still off-balance from the kick, and she ripped his anchored leg up, causing him to tumble to floor on his stomach with a sharp oof.
In less than a second she was on him, pinning him with her body weight, knees clamping his arms to his side. She leaned down and bit the back of his neck. Hard.
The sharp intake of air whistled through his teeth as her mouth met his flesh, and his taloned toes scraped against the metal floor, seeking purchase. He found it, and twisted under her, hands encircling her thighs as he suddenly was sitting up, her straddling him, his face inches from hers. His movement was blindingly fast, and she gasped as his teeth met her shoulder, biting down through thin cotton.
The pain was sharp and sudden, and a moan escaped her mouth before she could stop it. Blunt human nails found soft skin under fringe, and she scratched down the back of his neck, eliciting another guttural snarl. His hands came up under her shirt and encircled her waist, talons biting into flesh. Craning, she found unplated skin on the side of his neck and bit again, tasting coppery blood as her teeth broke through.
She felt herself being lifted as he stood, her legs still wrapped around his waist, hands still tangled behind his fringe. He walked them back and set her on a crate, reaching up to slide a finger through her hair band, snapping it effortlessly. Dark hair tumbled down her back and around her shoulders, and he twisted his hand into it. She realized, dimly, his mouth had never left her shoulder, until he yanked her head back by her hair, running teeth across the soft skin of her throat.
"You don't have to talk to me, Shepard," he said quietly, mouth ghosting across her jaw. "But don't shut me out." As if to add emphasis, he nipped at her collarbone, ripping the shirt between teeth and skin. She became acutely aware of the parts of their bodies that touched; hot, sharp heat pooled between her thighs.
"EDI," she croaked, as his teeth found her throat again. "Lock the cargo hold door. No one is to come in here until I say so. Take all surveillance offline."
She didn't even bother listening for the AI's reply. Her mouth was on his neck again, biting, nails scratching down his bare back. His hands found her back, and she felt the fabric of her shirt fall away as he sliced it neatly with a talon. She hadn't bothered to put a bra on before coming down to the cargo hold, assuming she would be alone. Her back arched as he nipped his way down her chest, running his rough tongue over smooth skin. He knelt in front of her, deftly pulling down the leggings she wore, discarding them somewhere over his shoulder. Again, annoyed by the fabric between his mouth and her bare skin, he slid a talon under the waistband of her underwear and tore it away.
"I didn't mean to shut you out…" she gasped, abandoning her exploration of his skin to brace herself on the edge of the crate. Luckily, it was against the wall, so she could lean her bare back against metal as his hands curled around her thighs.
"Don't lie to me, Ayhoka," he growled, running his teeth up the inside of her thigh. "You've given me more of yourself in the past few weeks than you ever have. Don't shut me out now, when things get difficult. That's not what mates do."
She stilled, breath catching in her chest, and he felt her silence, pausing his ministrations to look up at her. Acutely aware of her vulnerability, she leaned forward, hands curling around his upper arms.
"What?"
He leaned back onto his haunches, letting her arms slide down to his wrists as he drew away.
"You told me you couldn't do this without me. You don't have to. I've always been there for you…no. That's not true. I wasn't there when you needed me the most, but I'm not going to let that happen again. I'm here, for you, always watching." He let a soft sigh escape through his clenched teeth. "For as long as you'll have me."
She could see the apprehension in his eyes - the need for confirmation from her. They had come so far, and yet so much had remained…unchanged. The closeness was no different than it had been before her death; her soul was never quite at peace unless his solid presence was beside her. He came with her on every mission – she couldn't fathom the thought of leaving the ship without him at her side. It had always been that way, in the before. In the after, her spirit and very essence of herself had been lost, until finding him again. Here, again, he was laying himself bare before her, completely vulnerable. The epitome of trust.
In response, she leaned forward, running her thumb against the bleeding wound her teeth had left on his neck. She raised the bloodied finger to her face, drawing a line from the high part of her cheekbone, under her eye, across the bridge of her nose, repeating on the other side of her face. A loose approximation of the clan markings etched into his skin. She painted her face for him, but this time with his blood, bright blue against tan.
She didn't comprehend that he was again pressed against her, nor did she notice he had divulged himself of the lower undersuit layer. She was aware of being lifted, cold metal against her skin, him blazing hot and filling her. Her legs were hooked above his hips, wrapped tightly around him. He pushed her against the wall, using it as leverage as he drove himself deeper into her, a soft growl vibrating in his chest. His feet scraped against the floor as she rocked into him, the back of her head cradled in one of his hands. His tongue brushed her forehead, passing over the broken skin where she had head butted him. It had long since stopped bleeding, the blood drying. The wound tingled in the wake of his exploration.
"I love you," she murmured into his neck, feeling the pulse against her lips.
Shepard had been with many people, all of them human, not all of them men. She had loved, and been loved, and been "in love", but never before had she opened her entire being to someone. With Garrus, her very soul was laid bare, every touch resonating through her. His teeth on her skin, their bodies intertwined, allowing both their energies to flow unrestrained between them. He was able to take her to the most primal places, opening her up to her true disposition; she was human, but she was more, and needed more than what another member of her species could provide. In him, she found herself – a mirror image, an individual who was not afraid of her true nature, but instead revered her for it. And in turn, she worshiped him, for everything he was.
He reversed their positions, his back against the wall, and sank down to the floor. His hand still cradled the back of her head, and his mouth was locked onto the junction between her neck and shoulder. She could tell she was bleeding, but as the pain spiked, so did her pleasure. He drove himself into her with wild abandon, and she met each of his thrusts with equal passion, feeling the familiar build of heat pool in her lower belly. He could feel her beginning to tighten around him, and she could feel him stiffen even more in her. She interlocked her fingers behind his fringe and found the soft skin of his neck, biting down as hard as her human jaws would allow. His resulting groan vibrated through her shoulder and shot straight to her groin, and she came violently, tipping him over the edge. He rammed into her one final time, and she felt him release, drawing out the last of her aftershocks until she collapsed against his chest, utterly spent.
It took several minutes for them to catch their breath. The wound on her head had long since stopped bleeding, but she could feel the drying blood on her forehead. Her neck was dripping bright red, a drop sliding down along the curve of her collarbone. He wiped it away with a thumb, and rested his forehead against the back of her head.
"It looks like a murder was committed down here," Garrus muttered. Shepard was curled up in his lap, both of them leaning against the cargo hold wall. He was extremely correct; there were splashes of blue and red blood and scratches on the floor and several shipping crates. His armor was scattered everywhere, her clothes torn and thrown haphazardly.
"Yeah…" she replied quietly, head leaning against his chest. "I really don't know how I'm going to explain the…gouges in the floor. Or the shipping crates. Or the wall."
"Blame it on Grunt?" he replied, fingers lightly tracing the drying blue lines on her face.
"How well can krogan smell?"
He shrugged, fingers moving to raw, red teeth marks on her shoulder and neck.
"Good thing for Cerberus uniforms." There was a hint of humor in his voice.
She glanced down at the criss-crossing of bite marks and scratches on her body and laughed.
"They'll be gone in a few hours. Good thing for Cerberus cybernetics."
He made a disgruntled sound in the back of his throat.
"What?" her eyes snapped back to his.
"I'm not sure how your skin will react to dextro saliva. Cybernetics may not clear it up completely."
It was Shepard's turn to shrug, and she laid a hand on the wounded side of his face.
"More scars to add to the collection, then. However, I am very cold and very naked, and a shower sounds fantastic, considering we're probably almost to Omega by now."
The only article of clothing that had survived their tryst was her leggings, so she deftly slid them on, pulling her arms through her ruined shirt and tying it in the front to hold it together, eliciting a snort from Garrus.
"You need to be nicer to my clothes, Vakarian. I don't have very many of them."
He picked up her torn underwear and hung them from the end of his fringe in response.
They managed to clean up their mess and make it back up to her quarters in time to hear Joker's "Ten minutes out from Omega" announcement. Garrus was sprawled out on her couch, fully armored.
"How do you want to play this, Shepard?" he asked, tucking his hands behind his fringe.
She had quickly showered to wash blue and red blood off of her, and was now donning her armor, checking levels and closing gaskets.
"Well, I was hoping your knowledge of Omega would be useful…"
"Oh," he quipped, showing teeth. "You're going to let me play?"
"Actually," she responded, flicking her braid back over her shoulder and donning her gloves. "I was hoping you would let Archangel come out and play."
His resulting bark of laugh filled her quarters.
"Really though, Garrus," she continued, settling on the bed so she could pull her boots on. "The only way I'm letting you set foot on Omega again is if you're Archangel. Or if you had a different set of armor. Which, you currently don't. And I will remedy that the next time we are somewhere civilized." She put a finger up to silence his retort. "I don't trust anyone else to be at my side for this, and I need you there. I need you to keep my head on straight." Her eyes searched his earnestly, and he nodded.
"I suppose Archangel could clear his schedule to bring a little more justice to Omega."
"Good." She closed the last clasp on her greaves and stood. "I'm thinking the entire team should come out and flex a little muscle. This is Omega, after all."
"The more the merrier, definitely. If Karn Harga is anything like his brother, he'll be hiding behind several layers of minons."
Shepard tapped a foot on the floor, thinking.
"EDI, have the entire team in the comm room in five."
The AI's holo flickered into view. "Of course, Commander."
"Tell Joker he's invited, too. I'll find some use for him."
Her holo disappeared, and she turned back to Garrus, smiling.
"Is it bad that I'm not stressed? That I'm excited?"
He pushed himself off the couch to stand in front of her, placing a gloved hand on the side of her face.
"Reach and flexibility, Shepard. Now, if Archangel is going to make a reappearance, I believe he would want Ahyoka Shepard at his side." He walked her backwards to the edge of the bed and sat her down, reaching to the nightstand for her cosmetic bag. "Which one is it?"
She raised her eyebrows in surprise, and pulled the pot of black eyeliner out, uncapping the lid.
"No," he said, grabbing the container from her. "Let me."
He pulled his glove off with his teeth, and dipped a finger into the jar. There was something breathtakingly intimate about the act; his warmth radiating across her as he drew the lines of her war paint, taking care to ghost lightly over her eyelids and across the bridge of her nose, caressing her lower lip, over her chin and down to the hollow of her throat. Her eyes were unfocused when she opened them, feeling the cosmetic begin to dry on her skin.
"I should probably get real paint," she said, blinking. He had knelt between her legs and was studying her in earnest, the look of reverence etched on his face.
"We'll add it to our shopping list, along with new armor for me." He gestured to the scorched hole on his cowl.
"Well, let's go figure out how we're going to kick some batarian slaver ass," she said lightly, helping him pull his glove back on. He caught the back of her head in his hand and brought their foreheads together.
"I'll be right next to you. I love you."
"I know," she responded, leaning into his touch.
Footnotes: Before we move on in the story, I want to address a few things.
I began writing this story because I read many fantastic versions of the FemShep/Garrus romance, almost all of them slow burns through ME2 into ME3. I wanted to create my own, unique version, and deviate a little from the original storyline to add more depth to my characters.
In doing so, I have received a few private messages criticizing my depiction of Garrus as a predator. I'm going to just stop there and lay something out in the open.
My depiction of turians will be as apex predators who evolved into fully sapient beings. They are not brainless, bloodthirsty animals. They are, however, still incredibly in touch with their baser instincts, thus different from humans. Which they should be. Turians are not humans, and humans are not turians. This is a species of militarized individuals driven by the need to protect their people. They come from different clans, and will fight to protect what is theirs to the death. They are not cute and cuddly, full of sudden romance and drama.
While it has been a challenge to write Garrus as such without making him appear flat, I enjoy my depiction of him and believe, in my opinion, that he is very similar to the in-game Garrus. There is nothing incorrect about the way other people choose to depict our favorite turian, but for my story, I wrote him the way I wanted to. Simple as that. If you don't like the way I write him, then you don't need to read my story. If you do, then thank you!
I am going to assume that all of my readers are here because they enjoy the way the story is progressing, and have a connection with the characters. And maybe they enjoy kinky human/turian sex. Nothing wrong with that, either.
